


How Do You Court A Man?

by Penrose_Quinn



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: AU, Based on what happened to the Viscount after the Campania, Eventual Smut, F/M, Humor, Just a weird spin on Victorian Romance, Original Character(s), Sensuality, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 13:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14137101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penrose_Quinn/pseuds/Penrose_Quinn
Summary: "This was the end, I know. Though it would not be as tragic if not for her contribution.In other words, she would be the end of me."Simply, him and her—inappropriately, under a complicated convoluted circumstance—share a flat. Simple, if only they didn't get along like oil and water.





	1. Of birds and banters

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, this isn't one of the weirdest things I've written so far. Why the overly-pretty bomabastic Viscount—as the main lead, exactly? I don't know, but by god, he's such a fun character to write! Anyways, this whole fic is pretty much self-indulgent so bear with me (if you're still reading this, that is). Well, enjoy!

 

 

 

> [an excerpt, from a letter to 10 Regent Street, London:]
> 
> _This is the beginning of the end. It might as well be an understatement at this point._ _When a wide-grinning psychopath_ _—_ _a death god or whatever lunacy it was he claimed_ _—has_ _rescued me at the brink of drowning in the sea for the reason, I quote, "It'd be the greatest misfortune losing the human that could make me laugh this hard."_ _Whether I will take that as a compliment or an insult is still debatable; though that is a digression, as it is not the real issue at hand. The bastard has done me a great injustice by not sending me back to London_ _—_ _worst of all, to this sodding place._ _This is the end, I know. Though it would not be as tragic if not for her contribution._ _In other words, she will be the end of me._
> 
> _From your brother with love,_ _  
> _ _Aleister Chamber_

 

* * *

 

She's a woman ahead of her time, according to Mrs. Thatcher.

His impression of her straddled between the fine seams of exceptionally horrific and wonderful. She was of a different stripe of female; indeed, her mannerisms adopted the core of the pure victorian vein, all English prim and proper, however it was her insolent autonomy that made him think otherwise.

Women hadn't been a mystery in his line of experience, may it be the coy gesture of a fan to the secret enclave between her legs. London had a variety, possessing their own brand of flavor, and he could make an effortless boast discriminating this one to the other. He was handsome, charismatic, and damnably affluent with a young man's appetites—or perhaps, a tad too much—and the dames always fawned over him for understandable reasons. After all, he loved women and they loved him. He was the scandal of a ball and the fire in a woman's loins, and it hadn't been completely a sin to live up to a precious reputation, especially when he was showered with their utmost attention. He fancied that, honestly.

Perhaps, what came unwarranted was the shipwreck that ended those blissful days and the woman that begun the start of a newfangled fascination. Oh, she was an interesting specimen, not just a pretty thing to gawk at, with those bloodcurdling glares and that sharp vicious tongue. It was a façade, of course— _maybe_ —because constant volatile tempers had been another conduit for a deep unexpressed passion, a quenched yearning, and to be frank, he was a charmingly irresistible man.

It was ludicrous to think she wouldn't be infatuated to him. Simply ludicrous.

"You're insufferable," said his blue sparrow, out of unadulterated vexation.

Insouciant and foolhardy, Aleister had worn his best attractive smile. "Insufferable? Why, blue sparrow,"—she barely contained her self-control when he called her through that little pet name of his—"pray tell, how have I been insufferable? I don't understand how you could have thought of such—the miracle that I am. Besides, I call all my birds with befitting endearments."

"I am not your bird. Not _anything_ , sir," she argued, crossing her arms. "As I've said for the umpteenth time, don't call me blue sparrow."

His eyes scrutinized her with a wince though he couldn't deny the profound curiosity within them. The candor in her words was brimming with confidence and asperity hence rather refreshing from the demure euphemisms of a noblewoman's lips, despite his slight discomfort. It was that remarkable impertinent show of hostility and strength that made her so exotically unreachable, all the more desirable.

Instead of a weak smile, he curled his lips up slyly. "I don't mind the suggestion, love," he remarked, thinking he had figured her out. "But for a lovely face, I would need a name, no?"

From his response, he had been engrossed of her reaction. She remained quiet in her cold indignation, but her eyes—oh, how he adored those blue smoldering eyes—burned like a fire and dare he say: one could get scorched in them. This banter, no different from countless others before it, had been the greatest amusement he had ever since his tragic parting from his sailing in the Campania.

Aleister chuckled softly. "When you brought me here, you never gave me your name."

"I told you before to address me Miss Hadley."

"Your _first_ name, blue sparrow."

"Unnecessary. After this week, we're still nothing but strangers to each other, sir."

"But that could change, couldn't it?" he implied in a suggestive tone, leaning dangerously close. "A week can be enough. We are here alone. Unbothered. What do you think can _not_ happen?"

His insinuation, as well as blatantly admitting his shameful intentions, caused her brow to twitch.

Unabashed, he then allowed himself to edge at the side of her face; the promise of sweet stifling heat beckoned. He spoke softly to her ear, "Besides I'd love the thought of whispering your name."

Her response was a sharp intake of air. _Short of breath already?_

She took a step back though it hadn't been for the silly excuse that she was overwhelmed—she wouldn't condone it, if that was the case—but for a steady angle to meet his eyes. Hers, however, were nothing short to indifference and reproach. "And I'll assure you whispering my name would be the very least you'd want to waste your time on. When I reluctantly agreed to take you in, I expected you to leave."

Their chance encounter had been the sort of tale worth telling for all the nonsense and absurdity it had been. It began with relatively harmless interaction; she was minding her own business near the docks and he was doing the world a great deal of displeasure by cursing out his miseries upon it like some pissed sod, but the funny thing was that he managed to find himself in an incident—he tripped _accidentally_ from a ridge on the pavement after fruitlessly shooing away a seagull—and, well, she stepped _on_ _him_ on her way.

Then there came eye-contact, swift and steady like those rose-colored romances—at that moment, he was captivated and a little relieved in the occasion that someone had graced him a rare coup d'loeil. However, she hadn't returned those sentiments as she relentlessly ignored him ("Must this be fate—ah, wait! A moment of your time, please! You—no, not you, you're in the way! _You_ , the beautiful woman in blue! You're still leaving . . . oh, ah, where are you going? Blue sparrow!"). Regardless he understood in those fleeting intervals of a glare that there was something hopeful beneath the surface, something of promise, and that she lured and he followed, gravitating to her pull. So he made a mad dash after her till they reached her flat and the rest had been history.

Incensed, she replied in all her harsh bluntness, "If not for Mrs. Thatcher's meddling, I wouldn't have thought twice to let you stay in my flat."

Aleister was mildly amused. "You speak in past tense, my dear," he remarked. "You said _wouldn't_ but you _have_. You _let_ me stay here, and that is what is happening at present." He smirked at this, full of cheek, with an arrogant tip of his chin.

Determined to have the last word, his blue sparrow chuffed. "That's because you wouldn't let go of my leg from your pathetic begging."

And like a drop of a hat, that was where his smugness slid off his face.

Albeit the disapproving frown on her lips, he could make out the small remnants of a smile form, a haughty smile. She loved rendering him into the fool; it was a sadistic habit of hers, he believed.

He sighed dramatically. "Must you always say it where it hurts?"

Regardless he adored her for it.

It was quite the start of an interesting route of an unfolding complicated relationship. One he'd certainly venture for if the end had assured the prospect of getting under her skirt; he liked the stubborn ones, full of passion and vigor, and just as much, when they would scream his name from the top of their lungs.

Well, those were the pros. However the cons were nothing less from a bleeding can of worms.

Her company hadn't been compensation for his plight, not in the slightest. He was a thousand miles away from London, probably in some far-off rural county—somewhere in Yorkshire, he didn't bother remembering the particular location—filled with estranged denizens who don't know a thing or two about the most fussed blueblood celebrities or finesse, the Season parties or even the latest vogue—he couldn't tolerate it quite frankly, and he already had the strong suspicion that these sad _miserable_ people were only bred for sad miserable things like most of the lot in life, the mundanities he'd rather not divulge. Pitiful, really.

Even more so that they had no foggiest idea who he was. _That_ was profanatory!

As he recalled their first tête-à-tête that one evening ago, Aleister remembered gaping at her in bewilderment when he spoke: "You really . . . don't?" he asked, uncertain. "B-but that cannot be! You must know . . . I—I've never felt so _offended_!" there was a hand clutched on his chest, an indication of his pure mortification.

Sitting opposite of him, Miss Hadley graced him an odd look, her nose pinching. Then she rolled her eyes. "Calm down. Goodness, you're barely an hour here and you've already made a fuss in less than a minute," she interjected. "Well, _I_ don't know you. And I swear if you're going to make another elaborate story of what you did being this famous Viscount Druid—"

"Viscount Druitt."

"— _Druitt_ , whatever," she muttered. "You're not doing yourself a favor."

Joining behind them, Mrs. Thatcher berated, "Dearie, it's rude to treat a guest coldly," —his blue sparrow huffed—"How would you like your tea? Milk or sugar?"

He smiled charmingly, recalling his social graces. "Sugar," was his answer. "You should listen to your landlady."

She nonchalantly dismissed his advice— _him_ , in particular. "I am not treating him coldly. I was simply being straightforward because I've no inkling what he's talking about. I've never heard of such ridiculous story in my life—really, nan, have you ever heard of a Viscount Drewitt?"

" _Druitt_." He corrected, after graciously receiving his tea.

"Well, I don't believe so. Never, honestly."

"There. I've made my point quite clearly."

"A viscount? An acquaintance of his, perhaps?"

"He claims to be _that_ Viscount, nan."

"He— _oh_."

It was that incredulous tone in the elder woman's voice that had further corroborated a bleak outlook of an earlier return to London, oh to his first-class livelihood and his grand mansion and his shiny-eyed admirers. He eyeballed them, dumbfounded. "But . . . but I'm certain I've made quite a reputation for myself. This is still England, is it? Is it? One of you must know or at least have heard of me," they stared at him unblinkingly, to his dismay. "Oh, a no as well? Really? This is too much . . . I'm an important personality in London, for God's sake!"

They both shared a look that he could identify with concern—except, his blue sparrow who possessed a sort of withering glance—and mumbled quietly to each other. He could barely comprehend their brief colloquy though he was certain there was a mutter: "— _he's gone bonkers . . ."_ and along the lines, _". . . only doesn't understand what's he talking about."_.

It was frustrating. Absolutely. Frustrating.

Miss Hadley was the first to gratify him a stern glare, perusing him with those skeptical blue eyes of hers. "I honestly think you're just delusional," this earned her a terse scold from Mrs. Thatcher. She sighed in resignation, composing herself. "But I suggest you give some forethought in what you're implying."

On the other hand, Mrs. Thatcher sympathized. "You should have plenty of rest, I believe. You look a bit peaky, Mr. Chamber. I personally think it's best that we continue this conversation again when you feel well, no?"

 _Unbelievable_ , he thought. They're still not convinced he was telling the truth.

After having another curt exchange—in which his blue sparrow's face soured in reaction—Mrs. Thatcher had plastered on an affable smile and excused herself out with a short adieu. If he hadn't been undergoing an identity concussion, he might have taken the initiative to listen more keenly. As they were once again left alone, he was slightly confounded to find himself in an uncharacteristic silence.

His blue sparrow appeared preoccupied whilst latching on her tea. "So the beautiful woman in blue, hm?" she spoke, recollecting, after gnarling quietly to herself: "honestly, who talks like that?"

Before he could even utter a response, she snapped her fingers, her expression elucidated. "Ah, you're one of those twelve-pound actors, aren't you?"

"I beg your pardon!"

"That explains it. I reckon that whole Viscount doobrie is a character for some stage play you're in."

"Druitt," Aleister automatically corrected, feeling more doleful than he had been and somehow enthusiastic in winning her over with the truth. "I will confess that I am an avid enthusiast for the theatrical arts and have participated in a few coups de théâtre some time ago though I am what I say I am. I _am_ a viscount in London."

"Oh, come off it, theatrics won't help your situation," she quipped, calmly sipping her tea. "I've met one of your ilk before; a borderline narcissist, over-the-top, and a sweet talker, he is. You're not _that_ different—only that, perhaps, you're a shameless skirt chaser."

"I am _not_ an actor. Although I will excuse the skirt chaser argument, I'm nothing like the rest. I'm far better than that, of course," he said, making her curve a dubious brow. He appraised her, hooking a thumb under his chin. If he could recall, he was certain that the bold action had evoked at least a blush on a girl's face though she hadn't done so, defying his expectations once more. If anything, she didn't care as she fussed over her tea. "With that kind stubbornness, I'm assuming you're the type that's hard to please."

Her blue eyes flicked back at him as if to sting. She looked like she wanted to protest but realized that hadn't been the case.

_Because it's true._

His lips couldn't help but smirk. "Your silence alone confirms it," he chuckled, a tad sardonic. "How lovely. We're getting to know each other quite well. My, it's a rapport in progress, I dare say."

His blue sparrow was annoyed. So annoyed in fact that he could notice the taut grip of her teacup. He would note that his sarcasm was a bit uncalled for, ungentlemanly even, however it was tremendously worth it for the sake of teasing her.

She kept surprising him. In the stead of the anticipated flush on her cheeks were those unrelenting crossed arms, that dignified tipped chin. This mere woman had the decency to be prideful as if she did have pride, and he didn't expect this transgression to not be appalling. _And how rare_ , he thought, _for a woman to possess such a thing_.

Still irked, she went on: "If you're still not in the mood in being cooperative, then I'd fill you in my terms while you're lounging about here."

He blinked at the notion, quickly forgetting their small banter a while ago.

"Oh! Before that, I've seen my room. It's so cramped, not that everything in this flat isn't either, but I've seen your room—"

"You . . . _what_?"

"I've seen your room."

"Rephrase that, you mean you went _inside_ my room _without_ my permission."

"Well, you could say that," he shrugged, nonchalant of her indignation. "Anyway my bed was stiff, barely sleeping material; yours, however, was quite comfortable enough."

"So you didn't only trespass inside my room but you also laid on my bed."

"Yes."

She was upset, seething within that impressive image of sophistication. "What are you trying to imply again, sir?"

Aleister buoyed at the suggestion. "Ah, will you lend me your room instead?"

Her tone elicited her outrage, overtly disapproving. "You actually have the gall to ask that?"

"Yes," he said, smiling. "Well?"

"No."

"Is there any consideration for me sharing a room with you?"

"No."

"Are you certain about the last one?"

" _Of course_."

"You're not allowed inside my room. I swear if I find you there, you're sleeping outside," Miss Hadley threatened, which did manage to dither the nerve out of him. "Another thing we must discuss is priorities because it seems you lack thereof. Simply, I own the flat and you're staying on my flat which would mean you listen to me. So if I ask you to do chores, you'll have to comply with it. You'll have your share of responsibili—"

"—wait a moment! I will work? My dear, you must have forgotten about the fact that I am a viscount." He stated, awfully too proud to lower himself into subservience.

"Now should I kiss your shoes and beg for forgiveness? Oh please," she said mockingly in defiance. "I don't care if you're a viscount or not, I will never allow a lazy pretentious debauchee, such as yourself, mooch me around just because you said you're a victim of a shipwreck. Sir, if you can't come to an understanding then I best suggest you find an alternative _outside_ my flat."

He was about to open his mouth in protest however found himself at a loss of words. Humbled down from his size, his ego.

By a mere woman.

Making up his mind, he sighed in resignation. "Of course," he reiterated with a grimace, defeated. "I'll . . . come to this understanding."

"Good."

Her lips crooked into a glorious smile. However he was conflicted of how he found such a wretched gesture attractive still.

She might as well be evil incarnate—all fiendish smirks and smoldering blue eyes—but one thing remained; she was but an elusive creature who screened smoke and mirrors of the woman that she was and remained to be—and it was just _that_. Fickle was the heart of a woman, and he knew with confidence how it worked and ticked. A little coquetry, some bit of seduction, and he'd play this game of affections with her.

So he smiled in a manner full of meaning. If it was a simple conquest, how can such a precious thing between them be relished after all.


	2. Of fops and their gaudy tastes

 

> [an excerpt, from a letter to 12C Church Street, Whitby:]
> 
> _I hate him._
> 
> _Never had I had the misfortune of meeting a man as exceptionally competent in annoying me such as he, that arrogant loathsome fop! Oh, and Annie dear, do me the pleasure of not grinning at this rant; it is neither misleadingly endearing nor passionate, if anything it is my outrage. Push away those romantic ideas of yours this instant! I am not one of those nubile heroines in your fiction that you adore so much. The man is nothing but trouble, and, good grief, he is living with me in my bleeding flat_ — _of all things!_ _I shall fare well, of course. However it is my patience that, I believe, is in dire need of abundance of, and ah, yes, a glass of strong gin too, in the company of a fool like that. Need not fret with this man, Annie, I hold little to no lenience with lecherous advances. He will not lay a finger on me._ _Even if he intends to, as I put it before: a tit for tat._

* * *

Florence Hadley had been perfectly content with her lot in life.

Even though there were still plenty of exceptions within the realm of eighteenth century mundanity, such as: the enduring rift between social castes with its injustices and depravations, the pretension of tight-laced societal decorum, and the irrelevance of female corsets—especially those nasty ruddy corsets.

Irrespective of those claims, she had learned to simply tolerate it as those matters were beyond her control. In her private life, one exception had stuck out like the end of a skewed tip of a brush, and from a world full of madmen, scum, and the like, she had the misfortune of dealing with a certain Aleister Chamber.

"You don't actually believe he's telling the truth?" Florence questioned, her tone sharpened in disbelief. "He might as well be delusional, if you ask me. Boasting he's a noble when he came here penniless and desperate. If you tell me, nan, he's nothing but a suspicious swindler."

"But the poor bloke looked weary," Mrs. Thatcher affected a small frown. "A shipwreck, poor dear. You know, Felix had boarded a ship once, suffered a shipwreck after a storm—even nearly lost a leg from the accident! Now he's not the same ever since. Mr. Chamber must have been traumatized."

 _Bollocks._ Florence disagreed with her landlady's last statement though she didn't voice it out, knowing it wouldn't be best to argue while her current temperament escalated to what she called her 'Mother Hen Complex'.

Josephine Thatcher was a widowed compassionate woman of seventy-six though often times she also had been somewhat gullible with her inclination to take in strays. In regard to her disposition for the new tenant, Florence concluded that her blindsided empathy stemmed from an ugly experience when she was once a volunteer nurse drafted to the barracks in Scutari during fifty-four—an unquestionably grueling time, as she was told.

Shaking her head sympathetically, Mrs. Thatcher gabbled on: "There's no mistaking he's been through a rough ordeal because he's lost his way. He even begged. _Begged!_ Goodness, he had nothing to lose when had found your doorstep, dearie," she took her moment sipping her tea, placing a hand carefully on her chest. "Either way, we could confirm his origins once he's fit enough to share it, don't you think?"

Her shoulders flagged at the suggestion. "We don't owe him anything, nan," Florence sought to reason. "He's a _stranger_. Nothing good ever comes from his ilk."

"Hmm, he doesn't seem like the sort," Mrs. Thatcher contradicted, contemplating. "However it does bother me that he has to stay in your flat. It's inappropriate for you to be alone with a grown man without a chaperone—I would do, but my flat is on the ground floor. There's no available flat either as every room is occupied, except that basement one; however it hasn't been tidied up for quite some time. Oh, that certainly won't do. Are you sure you'd do this? I did suggest before that he could at least rest on the couch until he gets better."

Florence drank her tea, the taste of Earl Grey growing bitterer on her tongue. "No, I'm sure, nan," she replied, tamping down her reluctance. "My flat has an adjacent room. I'd rather not have you trouble yourself so much." The said room had only been reserved for a female tenant, if one was willing to share her flat. She'd have to sacrifice a quiet moment of privacy now from her landlady's current favorite stray.

Mrs. Thatcher smiled warmly however her eyes conveyed a different tale. "I appreciate it, dearie, but with my age, my reputation isn't worth a wink as it once did in yours. I'd rather not have people thinking you've been disgraced."

Her hand clenched, and Florence made an effort to tuck it beneath the table; the elder had a sharp eye in detecting her shift in behavior. She wouldn't want her to worry over her affairs—never again. "Well, I could manage myself just fine. I've handled worse. This one shouldn't be as difficult," she said confidently. "If it's about my reputation, it doesn't bother me."

All the attention glared upon a woman's reputation was such a trivial thing after all.

"Dearie, we've talked about this," Mrs. Thatcher gently reached out for her in that motherly tone. "Last time, you . . ."

"It's fine," she said, a little too stiffly. "Please, it won't be like the last time."

Mrs. Thatcher hadn't uttered a word though her silence alone spoke in volumes. Her ashen-gray eyes, for all its warmth and loving devotion, were also full of wise discernment, wizened with age; they gazed at her, herself reflecting from them and her old quandary. Florence could still remember that familiar look in her eyes and hear the coo of her voice in those yesteryears: _I know, dearie, I know. I'm sorry_.

With her resolved strength, Florence willed herself to smile in assurance. "However I appreciate your concern, nan. Always," she spoke sincerely. "I'll deal with him within a week. Trust me, that's all I ask."

Mrs. Thatcher blinked. Eventually, her eyes crinkled into that of half-moon smilings, almost youthful and radiant. _Accepting_ , Florence thought, as there was no other word that described it best. "All right, dearie," she finally approved, her voice tinkling with admiration; Florence felt relief and a sense of earned proudness that made her heart soar high up in leaps. "As long as you can handle it."

The elderly woman chortled softly to herself. In her amused recollection, she added slyly, "I suppose it's also understandable that he specifically wanted to be with you; he knew you best after all. Mr. Chamber is quite amiable, if not a gentleman at best. A breed of his kind is quite a fortuitous encounter, don't you think so? Of course for you, dearie."

She laughed once more as if recalling a dear nostalgic memory, however Florence didn't join her. She halfheartedly gulped down her tea; now, it tasted a tad like hot spice, a touch acrid and overwhelmingly bitter.

_He's horrible, nan. You just don't see it yet._

Had Florence not deeply loved Mrs. Thatcher like a mother, she would loath to accede to this proposal at all.

A proposal that was nothing less from a mistake—basically, _he_ was a mistake—and the most glaring issue of all was her failure in evading their fateful encounter at the docks. A penniless urchin who had done himself a great disservice, she recollected half annoyed, half amused. It was that one afternoon that she decided to visit her friend after being called over, and as soon as she left, she had _noticed_ him. If not for the spectacle of him being badgered by a seagull, she wouldn't have given a care for his laughable existence.

In retrospect, she prided herself of being prudent of the strangers of whom she must avoid. However it wasn't one of those days, unfortunately. It began when she stepped on him—to her surprise, she didn't even realize that she would stumble upon such a delusional loon. Whatever it was that occurred between them—mostly from him, gawking at her with those bright mooning eyes—she felt a tremor from her gut, a loud subconscious admonition that echoed: _stay away, stay away_. As a discreet woman, she had opted to snub him, if not to avoid his mere presence.

It never occurred to her that this man who was in tatters, starved and homeless—who explicated signs that he was delirious—could be so bloody persistent. Stubborn as he, she trod about, digress her path, and disregarded him still; but he was like a bloodhound on its lead, tracking her down with cutthroat resolution.

It was until they reached her flat that the thin thread of her patience finally _snapped_.

" _Stop that at once or so help me I'll_ _—_ _!_ " she had exclaimed in her pent-up fury but stopped when she realized in dismay that she had given him what he wanted: her attention. It was just that; within those private seconds of silence, he _smiled_. It racked her nerves to no end, rebuking herself for her incompetence in shirking him. Too mortified of the events that had concurred, she couldn't quite recall what he went prattling on about—except, perhaps, that she did distinctly hear something about fate and he even had the grit to call her _his_ _bird_.

Moreover this shameless man hadn't certainly done a swell job in putting his best foot forward when he had come to her and unabashedly kissed her cheek; she slapped him in turn, rightfully so. The events after that were their shenanigans over the door in which they fought over it whilst, insanely enough, had a squabble for a good solid minute, and then the climacteric juncture happened; the gaping door, both of them unceremoniously sprawled down—she landing on the floor, he on her skirt (which she reacted with a kick to his shoulder)—the scuffle and the clacker, and his desperate resort through clutching on her leg.

As she struggled wriggling him off her, that was when Mrs. Thatcher found them.

Everything else after that was set in stone.

For all the madness that transpired, it would make sense for her to loathe him.

* * *

". . . _but_ ,"

Florence sighed, for what seemed to be the _thirteenth_ time this day. "What?"

Aleister had appeared as if he had swallowed a lemon. That small grimace had simply imparted what little knowledge she could scrounge from his dubious background. "I cannot assure you that I am very well-versed with chores."

There was a tentative silence between them, and before he could utter an unrelated presumptuous notion, she commented in a not-so-subtle-dig: "I had hoped you know how to at least clean up by yourself." Her eyes had every exacting intention to scrutinize, examining him from the sole of his leather-worn shoes to the smirch and sweat on his brow.

He shrugged nonchalantly with a flourish. "My servants do that for me."

"That's not my problem," she interjected. "You're honestly telling me you can't even sweep with a broom? Not wash your clothes, your dishes?"

He nodded.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she arched an inquisitive brow. "I think you're just making up excuses."

"Well, there is that," Aleister confessed, daintily sipping his tea. "But, truly, I don't do chores."

In her no-nonsense tone, she declared, "Then you'll have to."

" _Then_ ," he started, chest rising as if to contend back, but he retracted dispiritedly a beat later, realizing he would be at the receiving end of their argument. "Then I—I'm holding you accountable if I do something wrong. My hands are not made for . . . such lowly things."

Florence wouldn't have denied the opportunity quipping the offhanded comment though in that stead she, surprisingly, hadn't retorted a biting remark back at him. It wasn't so much that she empathized—which would have taken long odds for such an event to ever occur—but it was more of the fact that he had genuinely confessed his inexperience of the matter. Something of which struck her in perplexity.

What kind of livelihood did this bloke have if not to drudge for a single shilling a day?

The spoilt supercilious manner he spoke, the grumble in his voice and that childish pout on his lips—clearly, a severe case of arrested development. Anyway, if she hadn't known better, he could have been . . .

 _No. He's not a noble, undoubtedly_ not _a noble_ , she reminded herself adamantly.

Coming over a decision, she said, "Regardless if that is your predicament, I could always teach you," this earned her a _loud_ morose sigh, which she responded accordingly through putting up a decidedly mature response. "Don't be a peg too low now, sir. I assure you; you wouldn't be so utterly useless as you are now with my guidance."

He was still dejected on the matter, even more so that she had insensitively worsened his woes further. It wasn't supposed to be a favorable turn for him nonetheless.

"Utterly useless, hm," as dismayed as he was, he dared to simper grimly whilst leaning on his pale knuckles. "Well, aren't you quite a beam of sunshine, blue sparrow."

She felt mildly amused of this show of inner drama-induced struggle that he was endeavoring to overcome. "I try to be," she humored him, a wisp of a smile on her lips. "A week would suffice for your adjustment—plenty to do, ah yes, surely."

He blanched. "Plenty?"

This was quite entertaining.

_Behave, Florence. You're the better._

Florence cleared her throat. "Since I've established my terms," she intoned, observing him. "I suppose you would, hm, need a change of clothes."

Those worn crinkled rags simply won't do; they would dirty her couch.

To her surprise, his amusingly glum display a while ago had been swapped with his enthusiastic zeal that she would very much avoid; she'd rather not have another splitting headache. His bipolarity was _disconcerting_ , she noted.

Aleister clapped his hands. "Oh, clothes! Of course, of course," he said spiritedly. "I actually am in dire need of a new wardrobe, if not obvious enough. Preferably something of my size, clean and comfortable. I'd like something posh as well. I'd rather not be caught dead in poor quality fabric, God forbid no. Ahh, silk dress shirt, frilled with cuffs. A waistcoat, yes, cream or blue, it doesn't matter just as long as the color looks wonderful on me. Oh and the frock coat, especially the frock coat—the most stylish one, not those tedious gray monstrosities. And slacks. Absolutely, dark slacks, flannel or wool . . . hm, definitely flannel, wool's a bit outdated. I don't honestly think I could stand these old slacks for long. The fabric's ruined beyond repair. Pity, this was quite expensive too."

She merely looked at him with deadpan eyes. In a flat tone, she repeated, "Clothes, yes?"

He looked at her seriously; it was _almost_ considering. "Ah, did you get all that?"

"That would be an understatement."

He didn't catch her sarcasm.

He smiled at her, baring rows of pearl-white teeth.

"Splendid. I'd love to get out of these clothes."

Standing up, she sighed. "Wait a moment."

. . .

. . .

Her tenant eyeballed the clothing in front of his lap in skepticism.

His brows furrowed. "What are these?"

"Clothes."

"These are," he pinched the sleeve of the blouse with his thumb and forefinger, "distasteful."

"They're the only ones available," she reiterated, crossing her arms. "Sir, I don't own a tailor shop if that's what you're expecting."

His eyes were gazing imploringly at her. "Nothing frilled at least?"

"No," said Florence. "That is if you'd like to borrow my dress."

"No thank you," he declined, a little too hastily.

"Well, if you wish to change, you have your room," she stated. "There's already a pitcher and washbasin in there to clean up."

He finally stood up, cradling the folded bundle on his arms. "Perchance, do you have a brush?"

Not anticipating the question, she sent him a long odd look and a hesitant: ". . . _yes_."

A gesture of what appeared to be illation could be traceable in his solemn nod alone. Decidedly awkward—she chose to leave him be in his own devices without inquiring an explanation.

Only then when her ears perked at a faint clap of a closing door, she sighed exasperatedly. As her shoulders sagged against the furniture, her attention lifted up towards the ceiling, thinking—other than its dire need of refurbishment—of endless conclusions of this enigma of a man left for her to ruminate and eventually curse. He was cumbersome and frustrating _and_ —

Florence disliked him.

_There's no use complaining about it. I dug this grave._

The only sensible thing to do was to tolerate.

She ineffectively tried to console herself through having a sip of tea. However upon holding her cup, she realized that it had been left cold for a good portion of the time. As she grasped the cheap porcelain on her hands swishing the wasted brew in tedious circles, the memory of him delicately raising his cup with a pinky protruded out dawned upon her. Inclined to reenact, she mimicked his hold capriciously, a pinky sticking out.

She'd recognized the gesture before; years of table etiquette had conditioned her for it after all—that proper ladies stuck out their pinkies in graceful effort, all for show of poise and so forth.

And it still looked downright ridiculous.

Aleister Chamber, on the other hand, was all sorts of ridiculous; the way he moved was too flamboyant, his gestures finely genteel, and if he was in the mood to overreact, each gesticulation of his would unnecessarily be flared up with exaggerated bravado, expressions just as animated. He was of an eccentric character, perhaps, that's it. For the life of her, she couldn't understand why she didn't cease these trite ponderings of him even though she had long ago regarded him as a grievance.

Albeit his idiosyncrasies, there was a kind of refined intelligence this man also possessed—she'd admit despite herself—as she recalled his decisive change in behavior with her landlady. He was polite and good-humored with a smile that won her old softened heart. It was a ruse, of course, but it was so well-executed that he may as well have acted it so naturally when he did so, fooling her even.

Be that as it may, Florence also cursed him for not maintaining that subdued attitude around her, in spite of the deception. His coquetry and personality alone was trying her patience, and perhaps, he realized this as well and must have found it amusing.

"—blue sparrow?"

" _What?_ " she retorted, a shade too livid than what she had meant.

Taken aback, he gaped at her as if sensitively waiting for her temper to simmer down. Politely clearing his throat, he then asked out of concern, "You're angry?"

"What— _no_ ," she blundered out, her tone unconvincing. Her eyes lowered to her hand, realizing that she still held the cold china with a protruded pinky, and in her chagrin, she set down the teacup responsively, finally closing her fists together atop her lap—as properly as she could. Her behavior had only caused him to quirk a quizzical brow at her, which only insisted her to further iterate herself: "No. I'm not angry."

"If you say so," Aleister said unsurely and strode forward to his seat. "Ah. The tea's gotten cold." He evaluated after touching his cup, drawing a conclusion for her crabbed temperament.

On the other hand, she hadn't replied a word.

As much as she would never utter it aloud, she would confess that he was handsome. His appearance almost reminded her of an aristocrat's inherited traits; tall and fair, all regal features and high pronounced cheekbones. He unmistakably had the firm refined posture and eloquence for it to boot.

 _It's coincidence. You're just distracted and a little tired, that's all_ , she thought stubbornly. _If anything he almost looks like a girl._

If there was anything for her to rivet her attention to, it would be the fact that he was using _her_ brush—and the way he dressed himself. The latter had, apparently, caught her eye than what she had least expected; it was quite difficult to avoid, especially when it acted like an _itch_ that needed to be scratched.

In a fit to appease a personal peeve, she walked up to him with resolute eyes; and before he could question her actions, she motioned him to rise up wordlessly, which he obediently obliged, as well as putting down her _not-borrowed_ hairbrush. She inspected him in a terse head-to-toe glance and then proceeded to undo the first few buttons of his shirt, which were sloppily misbuttoned—along with a spread misplaced collar. She'd thought the man could at least have the horse sense to dress decently by himself; the clothing she had lent him was already spotless and unwrinkled (by her meticulous hands) and he should have taken it with attentive discernment.

As she began to mend his collar, her hand had swept some locks of his hair, strands softly tickling against her knuckles, like that of thread—long silky golden thread, and not the familiar honey-amber of Annie's curls. Golden hair against a smooth lily-white throat—naturally pale, making her skin appear a shade tanner. Then her eyes peered curiously at his chin, no stubble in sight, and towards the hard lines of his jaw, sustaining some whit of masculinity from an epicene face.

She wouldn't have noticed it before but she had mistaken the color of his eyes for a pale blue. Up close, they were a rare shade of violet, a unique stand-out color that she would confess she'd never seen before. _They are lovely_ , she privately admired, even if the man had made himself the center of her peeve. It would have, if he hadn't been looking at her with those playful vying glances.

Just as he did now.

"I must wonder what I have done to receive your good graces."

Finally, it took her a few short intervals to see how she had gotten herself embroiled over such a complicated situation and the realization smote her like a slap on the face. _What am I doing?_

"Nothing of the sort," Florence endeavored to maintain a dignified front—just the thought alone of her sweeping his shoulders this very instant was unorthodoxly destroying her code of propriety; this must be self-sabotage and she felt the strong urge to cringe. "I dislike any kind of disorder."

He smiled mischievously. "Ah, if I were to tell you that my knickers are quite in disarray, would you fix them for me?"

 _The nerve of him and the debased words from his mouth_ , she thought indignantly. "I believe you should handle them yourself."

"It was a harmless jest, milady! Don't be upset—ah, but you are now. I apologize," he gently grasped her hand, appearing gallant. "Though to be frank with you, you're quite bold for a rigid woman."

Finding the gesture annoying, she removed her hand from his. "If you mean to comment the way I behaved then fine. It was inappropriate."

"My dear, I am not judging you," he spoke in a tone which she distinguished as pleasantly mirthful; it was a nice blend of intonation of amicable and laughter. However she soon forgot his reassurance when he took a bold approach in stepping one foot closer to her, a move which she regarded with suspicious motivations. "Though I must admit that I am quite inappropriate as well," he shared in a conspirator's whisper, "in different circumstances."

He smiled in a manner that matched his words: provocatively suggestive.

Florence stepped back. The closeness between them was unbearable and she'd rather not have this man blowing innuendos against her ear. "I'm not encouraging your _inappropriateness_ , sir," she stated blatantly. "Nonetheless you should mend that attitude, shouldn't you?"

Instead of being disheartened, he looked impressed. "Care to teach me?"

Her brows furrowed at the sight of him still having the gall to stare at her with those curious enamored eyes—eyes she'd once seen long since and dispersed with but a word. "Ah, but gentlemen should know when to act accordingly given the right situation," she quipped, voice purely mocking. "What's more creditable than a self-taught fop?"

One: rejection, a rebuke to learn by; two: retaliation, a wound to remember.

She would make him understand those things one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exposition Corner:
> 
> Scutari during 1854: This is actually a reference to the Crimean War that began in 1853. Well, let's just assume that Mrs. Thatcher was among the thirty-eight volunteer nurses with Florence Nightingale at the time.


	3. Of the most persuasive lies

> [an excerpt, from a letter to 48b High Street, Staithes]
> 
> _Hate is such a strong word, isn't it?_ _However I do find this curious ordeal of yours rather amusing despite its, ah . . . unconventionality; then again, darling, has there anything been more unconventional than a woman of your character? I jest, of course._ _I am anxious to meet this Mr. Chamber when I return. In retrospect, you are certainly not the sort to hold such strong grudges against one person who has annoyed you to this extent—but, I suppose, it is understandable, given your temper and the circumstances you are in. Regardless, it is especially interesting to see someone who had at least made you care enough to show your hostility._ _Make him come to my house for tea, will you, Florence?_
> 
> _Ah, and for your current plight. Well, if he is as pretty as you say (why did you describe him as 'supposedly-born as a pretty girl' in the first place?), I best suggest you enjoy it while it lasts—take it as a chance for you to indulge a man's attention, yes?_

* * *

_He's impossible!_

Aleister called out: "Blue sparrow,"

Chop.

"Milady then,"

Chop.

"Dear,"

_Chop._

"Darling,"

_Chop, chop, chop._

" _Ma chérie d'amour_ ," he spoke in impeccable French. " _Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne, ô vase de tristesse, ô grande taciturne. Et t'aime d'autant plus, belle, que tu me fuis, et que tu me parais, ornement de mes nuits_ —"

"Bloody hell," Florence spat under her breath, finishing chopping the carrots with a harsh thud. She berated herself for not mincing the onions instead, which would have temporarily blinded him for a laughably good portion of the time. Inwardly fussing over the left unchopped vegetables for supper, she then humored him—for the loud aggravating twat he was. "What?"

He smiled in triumph, eyes brightening at her response. "There's something on your cheek."

She grudgingly took his advice with a glare, brushing off a tiny mince of carrot. "What is it now?"

There was a slight tilt to his head, an angle that gestured curiosity more than amusement. "You're very keen in avoiding me,"

"Glad to see you've taken the hint."

"That doesn't happen."

"That's not my problem."

"Alas, it is," there it was again, his eloquent speech. Pretty words spoken with dramaturgic gusto. He sighed a damsel's sigh; long silvery lashes glumly dusting on his cheeks, golden locks falling against the crane of his neck. This made him look distractingly _pretty_ and practiced for raising sympathies. "There _is_ a problem. It centers on you, blue sparrow."

It was her turn to sigh (and it wasn't like one of his delicate sighs, thank god). She sent him one of her jussive stares. "I'm under the impression that you've taken the consideration that the problem with me is that I won't humor your advances, correct?"

He nodded. "Indeed."

"Have you ever acknowledged the fact that _you_ are the one with the problem, sir?"

" _No_ _n_ , certainly not," he told her, mildly preoccupied. "How could you even tell?"

"Well, I believe the answer lies in your overbearing narcissism."

Aleister winced at her bold criticism. If he hadn't had enough composure to take in her words, he might as well have been shaken from it, gaping at her whilst nursing a wounded ego. It wasn't exactly her intention to offend him—quipping was another thing—however she wouldn't reserve her candor for this man, who rightfully deserved to acknowledge the bare blunt _truth_ sooner from his own sweetened delusions.

He eyeballed her, registering—more like, ingesting her words. "I might have mistaken you for being straightforward," he admitted after clearing his throat, deliberately. "It seems you're rather sharp-tongued for a lady."

Her reply came with a tedious tone: "You're not the first to say that," then she mused for a moment, and repressing the urge to smirk, she gingerly asked in an innocent— _subtly condescending_ —voice, "why, you're not offended of a mere lady's words, are you?"

He blinked at this. "Taken aback," a slow piqued smile curled his lips. "Well, I do like a woman with nerve."

She continued to ignore him.

With as much mettle as she, he pried further: "So you find me overbearing?"

_Need it be asked?_

"Very much."

"And _that_ is the other problem, my dear," he remonstrated, shaking his head disapprovingly. "You think," he paused a second later, finding the right word to describe her, "differently,"

 _You should have at least been a little bit more creative than that, Mr. Chamber,_ was what she wanted to say.

"No," he corrected himself, slender fingers drumming his chin. "No," it was softer now, the way he objected it, like a caress. He mulled about it an interval more, leaving her in anticipation. His brows rose, his eyes were bright and clear, and he wore a wry amused grin on his mouth. "How could I say such a thing? It should be obvious. You are severely _in denial_."

In an uninterested tone, she said, "You don't say."

"Deep down that cold exterior, I am quite certain you harbor some sliver of affection for me though act aversely in response because—"

She didn't bother listening to him all throughout. It was a load of crock.

"—pardon?"

Florence glanced at him.

Blinking, he recited, "I suppose you have suitors then?"

She bristled. "That is none of your business and—"

His lips twisted into a cheeky smirk. "So you have. You don't look impressed, I could tell. Was it _that_ bad? Obviously I'm the best thing to ever come up in your life."

"— _you_ should stop being so meddlesome," she said belatedly, her jaw taut. "Regardless whether I answer those questions, you don't plan to leave me alone, do you?"

"Honestly, no."

She sighed.

"How about this," she proposed in calm measured tones, unenthusiastic of what she was about to say next. "We both ask three questions, nothing offensive or invasive. Simple ones. After that, you leave me alone in peace. Is that all right?"

Aleister appeared genuinely intrigued of her suggestion. "All right."

With this, she found herself a seat next to the table and gestured him to do the same.

Sitting opposite of her, he started with a flourish. "Ladies first."

She began thoughtfully with a "who are you, really?"

He smiled. "An introduction then, my dear?"

Her response came with a curt nod.

"Very well," as he placed his hand to his chest, a dazzling smile flashed across his face. "I, my dear, am the Viscount of Druitt, Aleister Chamber. I am the _—_ "

He spent his sweet time maundering about himself, almost as if he loved the sound of his own voice. He went on for hours; an impressive title here, a scandalous affair there—she wouldn't be surprised if he was suddenly comparing the size of his cock from his chequebook.

_I just had to ask, didn't I?_

"Enough."

She queried who he was and she expected a simple answer, not a detailed mind-numbing description of his identity. To her surprise, his innate overbearingness hadn't given her a mental breakdown as of yet.

"Wait, you said you're a doctor," she recalled, musing whether she'd misheard him.

"A physician," he grinned proudly. "Impressed?"

"Surprised," her reaction was still that of disbelief. "I don't reckon you as the type to tolerate such a thing, even more so that you passed as one at all."

"I had to undergo a great deal to simply have a certified doctor's license."

"I'm assuming you bribed your mentors to pass," she wondered why she was humoring him—for the swindler that he was, _a nearly believable swindler_. "Of course, if you say what you really are."

"That," he said in an amused closelipped smirk, "is confidential, my dear. I still have to keep some secrets to myself."

Florence cocked her brow at him, the knowing gleam in his eyes spurning her to _almost_ ferret out the truth. Rather, in her perspective, it appeared like he had purposely dared her to try for the sole purpose of making her curious. It wasn't provoking in that manner however it was fashioned to be aggravatingly persuasive. And she wouldn't allow any of it. "Then tell me why you're here."

The question caught him off guard. "Pardon me?"

She clarified, "Why are you in Staithes?"

The best response he could grant her was blink concernedly at her—or, perhaps, for himself. "Are you certain about that?"

"Indeed."

"Well, I would require something of you, my dear," he intoned. "It is of utmost importance that you do."

"Say it then."

"I need you to keep an open-mind for this."

"Fine."

He nodded.

"Brushing the other details aside,"—she scoffed at this; "details", he said. In every word he spoke, simplification was simply _nonexistent_ —"it began when an accident had occurred in Aurora Society's gathering event in the Campania,"

The Campania was yesterday's news and Aurora Society sounded too much of a funny name to take seriously. Only then she decided to interrupt him: "And Aurora Society _is_?" her impatient tone demanded an answer, which he complied with a complacent shrug.

"A most exceptional organization—and quite exclusive to get into as well. Spearheaded by a Dr. Ryan Stoker, charming young man. Have you heard of him? He is quite known for making miracles," he chuckled in what seemed to be an inside joke. She chose not to question what the implication meant though the dark lilt in his voice did hold some vestige of her curiosity—for all his little secrets, she'd least expect him to be sinister of a sort. " _Anyway_ , from what I remember, Aurora Society is made up of a group of medical practitioners who intend to revive the dead."

"Revive the dead? That sounds ludicrous," her brows furrowed at the notion, thinking how long he could further stretch out his fib. "This organization of yours sounds like some kind of insane occult."

"In way, it does sound like it."

Before she could criticize, she remembered he fancied himself a doctor. "I wouldn't go further as to know more about it," science was not a realm she would dabble on however she could at least understand that it had its own perspectives and motivations that usually resulted at the expense of its moral integrity. "But one thing does bother me. Despite knowing their intentions, why are you in this organization?"

"I suppose I was curious," Aleister said casually, "of the prestige of it all. The fact that only the privileged could join—in secret, I must add—makes its membership rather appealing and important. Well, anyway, if you're not a part of the inner circle, you might as well be a recluse," and then he gawked at her, smoothly adding, "no offense, my dear."

"None taken," she replied. _Prat_.

"Well, that being said. You see, during the said event the experiment of reviving the dead was an utter failure, instead of the dead girl being revived—she became, hm . . . un-dead? Yes, let's stick to that. _Undead_. I suppose, very much like Lady Shelley's Frankenstein, the monster—only prettier and starved for human flesh."

" _Un_ -dead," she repeated distastefully. "What in heaven's name is that supposed to mean?"

"Unholy beyond compare," he emphasized needlessly. "A living corpse, you could say. And well the dead girl— _creature_ began to devour her poor parents and upon having to witness this horrible scene, everyone was in uproar. Even I was filled with so much dread! Eventually, those hell spawns unexpectedly grew in number—"

"Yes. I understand. The undead has taken over the ship, chaos ensues," she summarized. "Where does this lead to you ending up here?"

"A moment, my dear. I'll come to that," he continued on: "Then I've gotten hold of an important machine—the machine that had revived those corpses and it could somehow make the undead _dead_ again, think of it as you will, with the help of a peculiar fellow; I've no inkling what his name is but he is a funeral director, a mad one at that. Now, my dear, this man—well, he isn't technically a man either; he called himself a death god but that's all you need to know about him because everything else is a mystery to me—well, this death god is my savior."

"By death god, you mean . . . the same ones like in those tales old folks like to tell in ghost stories, yes? The ones with the scythes?"

"Indeed."

She sighed deeply, registering his explanation ( _his codswallop_ , she corrected). "Are you certain you hadn't conjured it through, I don't know, _dreaming_ from being unconscious? Or maybe you were hallucinating? That wouldn't be so surprising."

"Why, no, not at all," he answered in a clear honest voice. "I was fairly conscious."

"All right. Why would this death god save _you_ of all people?"

"Well. I couldn't quite comprehend his reasoning as well," he appeared a little perturbed and hesitant in his recollection. "He finds me . . . hilarious."

"That's it?"

"Indeed."

To her surprise, he was just as baffled and oblivious as she was. "Really? He found you a little funny so he saved you? That's all?"

His lour deepened, overtly upset at the realization. "Yes. I would rather not think about it," he dismissed, sighing in frustration. "Going on, he saved me from a rather furious group that wishes me dead. I suppose it's because I took the machine and they must be quite envious of the power I have over them—I have even managed to bid them according to my will, you should have seen their faces! Regardless, long story short, the machine wasn't the one that revived the undead, and once they knew all of this, they were quite set to kill me at once."

"You lost me," Florence admitted. "A few questions, if you will?"

He bobbed his head appreciatively. "Of course."

"If the machine hadn't revived the undead, what did?"

"Good grief, my dear, how should I know?"

She simply nodded in response. "How were the undead killed then?"

He shook his head. "I don't know either. Killing them again, maybe?"

"How on earth did you survive if you don't even know what to fend yourself with from the undead?" her brows knitted together. "And I mean before meeting your death god savior."

Aleister shrugged, flipping a lock of his hair. "A throng of well-trained escorts money could buy. Empty halls and routes. Wits. What else of it?"

She scoffed. "Mhmm. And who are the 'they' you were referring to?" she inquired, annoyed. "The ones that want you dead."

He was cupping his chin with a thumb, humming in his concentration.

"Hm, there was this beautiful boy and his servant—who apparently was a demon, or so I've heard, who was quite adept in killing through throwing silverware. My dear, please don't give me that questioning look. I've no idea either where he keeps such a surplus of perfectly polished silverware stored in his pockets,"—actually, she was glaring at him purely in skepticism.—"and then there were those two death gods too—as lethal and otherworldly as their weapons look, I have the faintest suspicion that they are using strange perverse versions of garden tools, I think. They don't look exactly like garden tools but let us just keep it that way. Oh! And Ryan was there as well, the sniveling coward!"

He laughed at this fellow doctor's name once again. He'd even insulted him thus far. Her suspicions of their dubious relationship had been confirmed from the mocking edge of his voice. They didn't get along, perhaps.

"Then there was a little skirmish. My savior came at a nick of time before I faint— _feigned_ unconsciousness. They all seem to have a history with each other, especially the death god that saved me. They even regarded him as some sort of castaway, I believe. And after all that, the ship was sinking further down," his face deflated into a bathetic frown, perfected in such way to garner pity. "I almost drowned, to be honest. Or worse, killed by those undead copses. Goodness, I've never thought those creatures could swim! That was before I was saved, and miraculously—or rather, haplessly left in this place."

"It astounds me," said Florence, "how you can still have the energy to construct a sentence of your absurd nonsense."

"Indeed, it does sound absurd—I'm starting to question my sanity at the memory," he disclosed thoughtfully. "However believe me, my dear, when I tell you I am telling the truth."

She curved a dubious brow at him. "You expect me to believe that you were saved by a castaway death god from a utensil-throwing demon and two garden-tool-equipped death gods who are at each other's throats, mostly at yours—somehow I feel remarkably mutual for your _caricatures_ —and from nearly drowning in the sea, infested with the swimming undead?"

He said in a manner that meant _it should be obvious_ : "Yes."

"Should I applaud you for your imagination or your incredibility? I personally think you have a talent for both."

"This is futile," his shoulders dropped to his sides, and so did the remaining dregs of his eagerness to persuade. "I cannot convince you otherwise you believe,"

He was at least sensible enough to realize that her chances of believing him were slim to none.

He stared pointedly at her. "Well, what do you believe?"

"I believe you _are_ a stage actor," she said, earning her a soft grunt of denial. "You're doing well in your job. Your dramatics suited your role perfectly and everyone seemed to think so. You seemed to think so as well until you finally embraced that role of yours as your identity. Other than that, you had to kiss someone's arse to get that role too,"

"That last one was rather opprobrious."

"Not finished," she reminded snappishly. "However you made a grave mistake; you slept with the director's wife or maybe one of your patrons' wives or rather someone you _shouldn't_ go out of the line and sleep with, so he removed you from the role for retaliation. Jobless, you wasted your left savings over boozing and whoring about. I suppose the term piss-poor had fit your state of well-being then, hm? And somehow you managed to find yourself at the docks, miserable that you lost everything that you decide to vent it out against nothing."

Her tongue may have slipped; no, it _certainly_ had, and it was far too late to mend her vulgarity. Perhaps, she had been too indulgent of the story she was weaving—to the point she'd say aloud arse and whore (which she wasn't entirely shy of uttering). However this man was a different case altogether for the swaggering pretentious air he had. She couldn't help but think now how it did sound somewhat offensive . . . or as he put it, _opprobrious_ —whatever that meant.

Aleister stared at her dead in the eye—almost uncannily identical to the way Mrs. Thatcher would look at her in rebuke and slight shock, or rather the proper-ladies-should-not-speak-in-such-a-crude-manner look. He almost appeared like some cultured churchwoman, about to holler: _scandalous!_

Though he hadn't spoken a word, engrossed in her crass vocabulary with fixated eyes, and to her surprise, he had only uttered: "You're quite morbid," he tapped his chin as if he had half a mind on what to say next, "but I suppose your storytelling is, hmm . . . original?"

Not a single mention about her wordage.

Florence sighed in relief.

In his presumptuous tone, he asked, "Didn't I have at least a string of lovers in that tale of yours?"

"What is the relevance of adding that in my speculation?"

There was that prying look in his face that seemed to tell her: _you accused me of a skirt chaser once_. He smiled conceitedly. "Well, if you're going to make a speculation about me, it should just be right that in it I am loved."

She rolled her eyes at the suggestion. "Not relevant."

"I suppose it is my turn then," he enthused, clapping his hands together. "What kind of man does tickle your fancy?"

"Nothing,"

"Impossible,"

With a nonchalant shrug, she confessed, "I don't search for qualifications in a man."

"Oh, come now, blue sparrow, don't be such a spoilsport," he said, returning a skeptical glance. "There should be something. Ah, let's suppose he's handsome. No? Charming? Hm. Wealthy, of course. Every woman would want a rich noble husband."

"I'm not the sort to search for such superficial qualities," she stated firmly. _I don't want a husband._

"Interesting," he remarked. "Let's be a tad more specific then, shall we? Ah, he's good with his ambitions, his morale? Perhaps, his work? Good with his hands? His mouth?"

"This is getting nowhere."

"Then he should be good with his—"

"I'm _not_ interested."

"Why aren't you interested?"

"Because I'm not," she said, simple as that. "That's your second question."

His eyes pulsed wide in disbelief. "Really? That's it? Not even some kind of past lover that has dissuaded you to search for romance."

"If you're expecting a sob story, I'm not the one for that part," she admitted, not engaged of the subject. "I'm not an interesting person."

Aleister sent her a lopsided smile, daring to object. "My dear, I beg to differ."

She shrugged noncommittally. "Believe what you want."

"Well, I suppose this time," he said. "You can tell me your name?"

"Mrs. Thatcher would have gladly told you my name if you asked."

"No," was his reply. "I'd prefer it if you said it yourself."

Her brow arched. "Why?"

"That would be a fourth question."

"A follow-up question."

"I'd have one as well."

"You had one awhile ago," she told him, crossing her arms. "I'm considering. Humor me."

"Very well," he complied with relish. "I want you to say it willingly,"

He spoke in a smooth voice meant for swooning, and he eagerly continued so until he could explicit the slightest reaction from her—which hadn't happened so far. "I would like to believe I am not simply just a stranger to you," his hand reached out slowly, carefully, to hers, "as you to me."

Before he could snatch her hand, she slid it away from him. "Don't romance your reasons."

"I am not."

"You are," she reiterated. "You make it sound like there's something more to what you've bargained."

He smiled a telling smile; his head up in daydreams, his heart worn on his sleeve, like a foolish, foolish Casanova.

"Isn't there?"

"I'll tell you," Florence said in a tone that neither held the exuberance or tenderness of the besotted maiden he'd been expecting of her; it was her own voice, cool, steady and blasé. "But you cannot expect anything after that, sir," she reminded him once again of her disinterest, of her lack of emotion for this romanticized complication he made for himself, and how terse and dull she'd express that he was a man that remained unwelcome to her life.

She gave way to a dismissive sigh, hands twining together in sophistication. "To me you're still just a stranger."

Surprisingly, he looked a bit older—very much like the man his age was supposed to be. There was the barest hint of a withering glint in his eye, like he had seen this scenario unfold before. The smile on his lips hadn't wavered as it told a different story. Stubbornness or denial, she couldn't tell. However there was something meaningful in it like a thin fine cord that held his mouth in confidence and whatever it was bolstered his resolve the very moment he spoke.

He chuckled softly. "That could change."

How bloody-minded.

"Maybe not."

"Maybe."

She was getting irate. "I wasn't trying to sound hopeful."

"Well, can you be a little less pessimistic, love?"

"Don't call me love."

"Blue sparrow."

"Don't start," she warned. "And if you begin speaking in French, I won't bother with you at all."

Aleister teased, " _Tu m'étonnes_."

Before she could utter a retort, he cleared his throat abruptly. "I do believe you owe me my third question, Miss Hadley."

"I begin to wonder if you deserve to be answered, Mr. Chamber," she commented. As much as she preferred leaving him in suspense, she would rather not have him vexing her for a name. Mind made up, she sighed wearily. "Florence Hadley."

"Florence," he uttered, almost as if he tasted her name on his tongue. "Florence,"

He looked a tad troubled, tapping his chin in thought. "Quite a long name," he muttered to himself, "it could work, I suppose."

Finally, he smiled. Handsome as he and twice as irritating. "I like it."

Florence brushed aside his compliment, as she burdened herself with her ordeal with the resident swindler and the conundrum that was Aleister Chamber, _whoever he may be_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exposition Corner:
> 
> Florence's Wording: She is actually quite literate, being able to read and write, in spite of her upbringing and gender. It's a topic for a different chapter, but just to clear things out: what she was fussing a while ago was that she regretted the way she worded her assumption, sounding unrefined and open to ridicule to someone more articulate than her.
> 
> Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne from Les Fleurs du mal by Charles Baudelaire: basically, the Viscount was actually reciting one of the poems from Bauldelaire's Les Fleurs du mal or better yet known as The Flowers of Evil, which was published in 1857. Personally, I think as much as he's a self-proclaimed aesthete, he'd also be very interested in literature. Somehow, I can't help but think that Les Fleurs du mal would certainly qualify in his tastes.


	4. Of small talk and sentiments

>  [an excerpt, from a letter to 10 Regent Street, London:]
> 
> _I terribly miss London._ _The day of my arrival in this place alone has made me feel faint_ _—a flu, I feared at first, however an ill man is only ever feverish to the touch but I realized I was feverish with homesickness._ _Dare I say; what a curious term, homesickness. I most certainly long for my estate though house property cannot build a home and a home is not a place for one, if it is a place at all. You may laugh at me now, sister dearest, and I could hear your mellifluous voice even if we remain apart—your hedonistic brother, suddenly an over-thinker? Fancy that, if pigs can fly! I will personally blame the influence of one Miss Hadley on me._
> 
> _When I return back to London, I may embrace it but I shall laugh till my grave before I can ever call it home._

* * *

Near the wood was a cottage house at the end of the lane; washed-out walls and a brick-red roof. It was small for a two-storey house, but it wasn't a far cry to livable, compared to the raft of poor dwellings he eyed from the town square.

 _Perhaps, it could be better_ , Aleister surmised. He wanted to rest on a real warm bed other than harping about it on the pavement.

This little bird led him here, and like a desperate Apollo, he chased after his Daphne.

* * *

It smelt of mildew and old draperies.

Something of which he wasn't anticipating in lieu of vanilla and lavender.

Aleister woke up with a groan from cotton sheets and a lone stiff bed. He shifted to his left and then to the right but found himself facing up above the low ceiling, about to gripe the hardness of his pillow—not a goose-feathered one, unfortunately. His bedroom was dull and cold and oddly humid; regardless, it was a room for one. For a sorry uninvited guest.

 _Mornings were nice once_ , he recollected deploringly, yawning as he did so.

Plush satin beddings, large king-sized mattresses, warm golden sunlight, the scent of decadence and flesh and just the trace of cocaine, and a simpering woman or two flushed against him in nothing but their garters and sweet nothings. Clemens, his butler, by the door waiting to be beckoned. The niceties of "my lord" and " _mon amour_ ", spoken like they meant it: _"Good morning."_

"Not really," he uttered hoarsely to the unwelcoming silence.

Pushing off the sheets from him, he rose from his bed. As he donned an overlarge dressing gown (courtesy of Mrs. Thatcher), he put on a pair of slippers and padded away from his bedroom, realizing belatedly that he hadn't had some proper sleep for the past few days and his neck felt sore. Perhaps, his blue sparrow may remedy for the morning's shortcomings.

That, however, was met with dashed hopes upon lacking her presence.

 _Unlocked_ , he noted, frowning, when he twisted the knob to her room. She wasn't in here either. He would have waited for her if he hadn't impetuously wished for company. It hadn't been a secret that he was an extroverted man, and the dire need for social interaction was just as necessary as the air he breathed. He resented being alone.

Especially now.

Leaving her flat (which was silent as the grave), he went down to the kitchen in hopes of finding her there but caught himself curiously heading for the backdoor. Some part of him had a feeling he'd only find disappointment in the kitchen; the other, from an impulse to extract himself from the brooding quiet. Moreover, he hadn't seen the backyard yet.

Opening the door, he was met with the cold. The morning was raw and gray, barely a hint of sunlight gracing the horizons. What a day to be depressed. A shudder of a breath left his lips. He instinctively began to warm his arms as his clothes weren't suitable for the chilly outdoors.

Aleister would have retreated back inside, maybe considered to distract himself through starting a fire, if he hadn't discovered his blue sparrow out here.

She had been sitting on a wooden bench—an old sturdy thing with worn white paint chipping at the sides—and was staring vacantly on the creek ahead of the backyard, paying no mind to the bellflowers and daffodils next to her that swayed for attention.

With a tug, she wrapped her shawl securely to herself. "You're up early," she hadn't peered up to greet him, her mind half pensive, half drifting farther away from the brook and the bramble bushes. She looked distant, a sight he didn't expect to see. "It's cold outside."

 _There it is_ , he thought, grinning. That stern tone, that it-should-be-common-sense retort, something familiar to the foreign sentiment in her eyes, still blue, bluer and brighter than the morning. "So it is," he sat to her left, gawking around. "It's a lovely little garden." He would have broached of his own, how he treasured his rosebushes and his authentic Japanese camellias—ah, but that would be a digression.

"It's not mine," she reminded, and then gazing at the bellflowers, dewed and purple-blue, added: "but it is. Lovely, I mean."

"Mrs. Thatcher's?"

Florence nodded, wordlessly.

"She should be commended for her flowers," he complimented politely but had still regarded his garden far superior, of course.

"She prides herself for them, especially the tulips," her head bobbed to the right, motioning to a patch of red and yellow tulips. "She handles them with great care."

He hummed in agreement, riveting his attention to a weather-beaten well, moss-ridden and apparently unused for a time; a growing tree sprung up to its side, thick roots gnarling on the bricks. Atop the closed well were potted plants and each flowerpot were either painted clay or wide-mouth tin cans. Beside it lay clusters of cherry tomatoes, all crimsons and yellows and apple-greens.

"What are you doing out here?" she asked, not unkindly.

He would have brought up the same question if he hadn't been distracted with the old well and the foliage of varying coral bells.

"I came to find you," he smiled, charming his way to her with a lean, "naturally."

She dismissed his casual dallying, her face smooth and impassive and not one reprisal to supplement him. That proved to be no fun. "I suppose tea would be nice," she proposed tacitly, standing from the bench with a brush of her skirt. Then her eyes landed on him, as if she'd notice that he was _there_ , finally. Her red, red lips opened, a white sigh misting. "You shouldn't stay here long. The cold will catch you."

Aleister noted the rosiness of her cheeks, as if rouge had been stained on her skin. He only pondered why she couldn't apply this advice to herself; alone and frigid Miss Hadley, out in the mid-April chill for too long— _the cold has gotten to you, it seems_. In an interval of heartbeats later, he realized he hadn't addressed a word about it to her, knowing too well that she, the aloof woman that she was, wouldn't listen nor care, and so kept it to himself, tucked at the pocket of his memory.

He simpered back at her, following her to the door. "I appreciate your concern," the comment alone at least had some promising results: a disapproving frown. He pressed on curiously, "Do you always stay out in the garden?"

She shrugged, leading them to the kitchen. "It depends."

Out of deferential propriety, he sat on the nearest chair from the table once she had situated herself on her own seat with a steaming pot of tea. "In this early part of the morning?" he mirrored her actions, preparing his own tableware; trivial conventions of which were supposedly set up before being called for breakfast (they weren't even eating in a proper dining room).

She had poured his cup with the hot brew. "Sometimes."

After uttering a word of gratitude, he curtly, courteously, asked for the sugar jar. "Are you always this terse?" this time, he grilled her under his amused gaze, a smile flashing devilishly at her.

With a flick of her wrist, she pulled the jar back. "Don't push it."

He chuckled at her response. "I was hoping for a yes," he received the jar she decidedly handed, regardless, plucking two sugar cubes and plopping them down to his tea. "Forgive me, but you're less . . . loquacious today."

Her hand pushed back a stray brown curl to her ear. "Should I tell you that you're more insistent?" it was a rhetorical question, spoken in a clipped measured voice. Almost caught in the act of reposting, she blatantly excused herself: "it's too early."

 _Pipe down for a minute_ , she'd almost said anyway—or what she intended to subliminally.

He took a sip of his tea, an unremarkable blend he couldn't put a finger on, but it was warm, nonetheless; warmth that spread and seeped into his chilled bones.

Abiding to her wishes, he quietly observed her take a piece of sliced brown bread, spread butter and what appeared to be jam, dark and viscous, atop her slice with a butter knife. Having finished, she pushed the jar of jam and half-stick of butter to him as if insisting he help himself.

From the crowded kitchen table, there was a loaf of brown bread before him, half of its portion pre-sliced into uneven pieces, and that was something he would loath to eat. Brown bread wasn't his taste. He preferred white bread; it was proper bread after all. Or maybe, soft warm brioche or _ciabatta_. There was cheese as well though it looked a little old, and he could almost taste it from afar; too bland, too salty. It was common cheese, as he'd like to label it, and it certainly wasn't going to be a Camembert on his palate, regrettably.

"That's not going to turn gold for you," told Miss Hadley, peering at him as she nibbled on her bread.

"If I were Midas, perhaps," he joked, but she wasn't familiar with the Greek myth, so he dismissed it with a cough. "I never realized you could read minds. You keep stealing the words from my mouth."

She gave him a half-hearted shrug, occupying herself with her tea.

Sighing, he reluctantly took a slice and evenly swiped butter and jam on it. Inspecting his measly breakfast as if there'd been a mold, he regarded it a tad more impressive than just the bread alone (but really, it wasn't), and brought it to his mouth. Then a bite, that was all, a sharp tentative bite.

The brown bread had been dry, if not almost stale, and he wouldn't have swallowed it down if not for the richness of the blackberry jam, thick and crisp and meltingly summer-sweet on his tongue. "It's good," he said in dumbfounded awe and chewed on the bread again. "It's really good."

In another life more decadent than this one, he would have preferred seasonal fruits and April surely shouldn't have the taste of Summer; however he made an exception for this one, just this once. With all this commotion over berry jam, he was suddenly having a craving for a slice of Chef Lévêque's special fraisier à la crème mousseline.

"Isn't it?" she remarked in a pleasantly amiable tone—and by God, she even gave him a rare _smile_. "Nothing tops nan's homemade jam."

There was something so infectious in the way she smiled. Perhaps, it'd been because she had seldom done so or it was rather pleasant. Whatever it was, it buoyed his mood and he couldn't help but smile himself. "Your admiration for Mrs. Thatcher is endearing," he said, noticing her frequent remarks for their landlady. "Your eyes twinkle like stars when you talk about her."

"I admit the former," she disclosed, taking a sip of her tea. "But I think the compliment is a bit overstated to my liking," and then her brows knitted together as if she'd heard the absurdist thing this morning, muttering: "my eyes don't twinkle."

His opinion would claim otherwise. "Regardless, I think I may have figured you out, my dear."

"Don't you always," her tone was dryly ironic.

"I receive your good graces when we engage in conversation about Mrs. Thatcher."

Her brow cocked at him. "I assure you my good graces aren't only given for such things."

His hand reached forward and cupped her chin, tilted up to meet his eyes. "Oh? Pray tell, Florence," satisfaction filled him once he evoked the surprise on her face, her delay in reaction, and her parted lips, open and inviting; his thumb brushed the smudge of jam on them and placed the finger on his mouth, licking on it. Decidedly sweet with a tang of tartness—he smiled: "How should I receive them in your favor?"

Her lips stretched into a thin line. As carked as she appeared, he couldn't mistake it for anything else other than lividness. "My good graces are offered when they are deserved," she stated, voice like an edge of a knife. "Flirtation, however, isn't a wise approach nor is it worth a whit of my time."

"I'll pardon you for now," she began to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, as if to also clean the traces of his fingertips. "However I won't withstand it for a second time."

Though he would appreciate a blush or a sputter, he found her reaction incredibly amusing no less. "You realize, Florence, I didn't really kiss you, yes?" he reiterated boldly, leaning his cheek on his knuckles. "Admittedly I believe that is the closest to what I can have as one from you."

Her brow twitched. "I never claimed you did," she redressed, vexed. " _Stop_ calling me by my name."

"Regardless you reacted so marvelously scandalized," Aleister remarked in a delighted voice, ignoring her demand. "I touch your lips and flash a little tongue here, then I get berated. I hadn't even tasted you in that way," he may have been too carried away with his teasing as his language was bordering over unblushing indecency. _Taste her_ , that sounded too risqué. Then again, everything he said was purely wanton if one was to think of it with a promiscuous imagination.

However her indignation made up for it. Florence Hadley may have appeared like a calm woman though any ignorant fool would have misunderstood that. A small provocation wouldn't render her calm because she wasn't really calm, not patient either, but she was very much passive aggressive, more or less. More on the aggressive side.

She was quiet still, drinking her tea like gulping down hard liquor.

His fingers pressed to his lips. "Maybe a little," he admitted, a slight smirk curving his mouth. "Ah, forgive me, my _tongue_ may have slipped."

A muscle on her cheek ticked, making him tamp the urge to snicker.

"Now, now. I hope you're not _tongue_ -tied. It's not my intention to offend you, my dear."

She sighed, long and deep.

"Your puns were offensive," she said bluntly, almost grumbling them. "Don't purposely try to annoy me."

He chuckled at that.

"You're not very subtle in that sense, Mr. Chamber."

There was something gratifying when she had spoken out her opinion in that wry wit, that sharp tongue and that brazen attitude. He humored her a challenging smirk, one baring his canines. "My, what a grump," he japed, voice full of laughter. "A charming grump."

Before she could utter a retort, a sense of restraint held her back, placing her fingers between her temples. Composing herself, she breathed out her frustrations and put her energy in pouring tea on her cup than evening it out with a comeback. Obstinately, she reminded, "This is still too early."

 _So much for an amusing banter_ , he thought, musing time and time again of how he must chase after her, even in conversation, and realize then when he's out of breath, out of luck, that he wasn't a hairsbreadth close.

Breakfast became a quiet affair between the two of them for awhile.

"Once you're done, we're washing the dishes," she said, placing down her cup to its rightful saucer. "You rinse."

He almost choked on his tea, gaping at her.

Her brow arched inquisitively. "What? Has the cat got your tongue?"

 _One of these days, I'm certain that will not be the only thing that'll have my tongue_ , he would have replied, but having done so wouldn't be the wisest choice to opt. Although he was fully against her for making him do the chore, he was mildly amused of her pun, deliberate or not.

Clearing his throat, he straightened his back in an effort to appear dignified and unerring—most importantly, reasonable. "I assure I am not adept in it—rinsing, was it?" the lilt in his voice changed its tune, less flamboyant and more facile, like a smooth-spoken man. "You will certainly regret it."

This effect, as efficacious as it was on others, was not the least bit convincing to her. As she rose, she put a hand on her hip. "I won't spare you for flimsy excuses," she stated bluntly, piling up the dishes. "I'll teach you, remember? If a child could know so could you."

With that, he sighed in resignation.

Before the kitchen sink, they stood shoulder to shoulder. A little closer, he could almost feel a tendril of warmth from her.

Florence had done her part, instructing and whatnot; terse as always and adding incessant admonishments of " _don't break anything_ " during her supervision. The task was simple, if not a little tedious. Rinsing—he was certain he'd done a chore like this back at Weston though that had been a time when he was a fag and that he hadn't been an upperclassman or a lord. Easy as it was, he remained averse at the idea of menial labor. He wasn't bred for it after all.

"You should hire a maid," he suggested, accepting a lathery teacup from her, and then with a shrug, he supplied: "if it helps lessen the burden."

"Don't I count as one?" she humored him genially as she scrubbed on the utensils with a sponge, right next to him.

Noticing she'd pulled out a knife from the sink, he whispered, "Careful with that."

She breathed out softly. "Its edge is blunt," assured Florence. "Nothing sharp."

"You mean," he started smilingly. "Nothing you couldn't handle, I assume?"

Her head tipped to the side, the loose plait of her hair falling against her neck; slender and bare, and from such closeness, almost kissable. "If you put it that way," there was a compliant tone in her voice, humbly agreeing. He felt her brush against his shoulder—a soft brush—as she leaned forward, eyeing the plate on his hand. "You missed a spot."

Aleister observed it, noticing the sudsy patch on the plate. With a nod, he washed it again under the running faucet. "So you are a maid," he remarked, inching near her. "In what aspects are you also a _maid_ , hm?"

She sighed. It wasn't an irate one. "Not in the kind you think I am."

That caught him off guard. "What are you implying?"

His blue sparrow hummed, giving him a one-shoulder shrug.

For that, he splashed water at her.

It was just a light sprinkle, but she wasn't as blithe as he was. "Don't play with the water."

After the last dish was rinsed and placed on the dish cabinet like the others, she began to dry her hands with the towel from the sink rail. "If you don't mind me asking, how long have you been in Staithes?"

Aleister mirrored her actions. "A week, I think."

"You still think you're this Viscount—" her face contorted, nose wrinkling, " _whatsit?_ "

"Druitt," he corrected, doubting she'd ever recall it aright. "Of course, I do! I am the Viscount."

She nodded, slow and deliberate, though there was an element to it that gave him a feeling that she was testing him.

As she padded to the kitchen table, she took hold of a seemingly wrinkled newsprint that he could have sworn was an old dishrag and unfolded it before him with a flourish. He was thunderstruck at what he saw—if _that_ was what he really thought he saw.

"Apparently, this," on the newspaper was the latest headline in bold print with a sensational picture to boot, "would contradict that. He's already in London."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exposition Corner:
> 
> Apollo and Daphne (myth): In a nutshell, it's about the love of the god Apollo for the nymph Daphne. However it wasn't brought by accident, but by the malice of Eros. It is said that Daphne was the first love of Apollo but unfortunately she never responded his love. It was not usual or possible for a nymph or a mortal woman in the Greek mythology to resist to the love of a god, but Daphne did so and in fact, she lost her life trying to escape this love. Source: greeka


	5. Of slip-ups and apologies

> [an excerpt, from a letter to 10 Regent Street, London:]
> 
> _If you will indulge me; what comes after the unraveling_ _—_ _the bittersweet throes of sincerity, honesty? We both know that you have never truly been the honest kind, sister_ _—_ _and quite frankly, so am I_ — _however as charming as our guiles and as silver-tongued our lips, you have felt it too, have you not? Perhaps, in a distant memory, a sentiment ago of magnolia blossoms and bread-and-butterflies, in your fair kisses and farewells, you must have known it, too? That in a blip of sincerity, where the heart fractures a little and presents to a world of a million darting eyes what appears to be vulnerability_ _—_ _that there and then, what happens after this spectacle, that may as well as serve as a tragicomic than one of pathos, is confrontation, so simply susceptible to feeling before rationality and mistake than solution._ _Does it hurt, as one will sprinkle truth like that of salt into wounds?_ _It is because the truth_ _—_ _the foul unloving thing_ _—_ _starts a cold tremor in my chest, and, sister dearest, I realize that my truth is in her eyes, and I fear it._

* * *

"What! This can't be!" Aleister cried out in protest as he clutched at the old newspaper on his hand, obsessing over the atrocious photograph than the foot-long wall of text that intended to shame his reputation further in the gutter. "What on earth are they thinking? Why is this even in public? How can they even publish this with that impostor! I am the—" wavering at mid-sentence, his eyes flicked at hers: " _why_ are you looking at me like that?"

Her neutral expression remained the same and that was the concerning thought. "I assumed you were this delusional swindler when you came here claiming you're some kind noble. You're still delusional, nevertheless," She gave him a long mooting look. "Now it seems, hmm . . . you're an overzealous fan, aren't you? That, or you perceived him differently and you dislike how he stands out at the moment."

"A fan . . . of this _impostor_?" he repeated before fuming out in indignation: "How dare you even think I will ever acknowledge this unbeautiful bastard?"

Miss Hadley had the audacity to shrug. "It seemed like it."

Stomping to her side, he pointed his finger over the imposter's face, which he should add was nothing less to pathetic and a tad fat. He peered closer—was that a _mole_ on his chin? "He couldn't even look like the part and I certainly wouldn't be caught dead in this . . . this sacrilegious position! It's a public stunt, that's it! The man isn't even as remotely handsome as I! He couldn't even hold a candle to it with that pasty skin of his! That face, that nose. Good grief, his eyebrows!"

Her eyes darted at the picture then back to him in inspection. "I'm not sure about that," she told him with wry amusement. "His hair did give it away."

"Don't encourage the impostor, my dear. See that, split ends. _Split ends_. He has bad flyaway hair that I could never allow on myself," he slapped his knuckles on the newsprint as if to prove a point—and he had with a brutal weather eye. He harrumphed hotly. "Anyway, how could people believe in this rubbish? You don't believe it, do you?"

"No."

"You . . . believe me?"

"No."

His brows furrowed in bemusement. "Then what do you believe?"

She placed her hand on her hip. "I believe in nothing, sir. If I could recall, this whole predicament of yours is not my problem."

In a sweeping motion, he took hold of her hands. "But you must help me," he said, almost pleading.

. . .

. . .

" _. . ._ _Miss Hadley?_ "

Although an unanticipated arrival by the doorstep wouldn't wholly grasp his attention, the repercussions of their actions had proven otherwise. The voice faltered into quiet inference; when he decided to take a glance, it had been from a middle-aged woman, and by the shell-shocked look on her eyes—and dare he say, her eyes were awfully round and expressive and scandalized—he was almost certain she might scream for murder.

However that hadn't been the case. The issue, small as it was, revolved around their lack of reservation—or so, what society calls it: impropriety. In the privacy of one room, where they lay in but their flimsy robes and intimations, the both of them may have appeared no different from the blushing youth that eloped behind the trees.

His hands entwined on hers, her eyes gazed at his, and this closure between them had merited a blatant display of intimacy.

Aleister wasn't the sort to flush over the matter, and so he hadn't. He held her hands but he never kissed them, despite the slight whim. Though he still grasped onto them, imploringly, and the chance to steal a kiss in their questionable proximity still made itself very likely. Nevertheless, he found the whole predicament quite droll.

On the other hand, Miss Hadley was well-nigh at the brink of imploding.

After the awkward silence, the intervener cleared her throat uneasily. "Uh . . . _oh_ , apologies. Pardon my interruption," she gave a nod and then skittered back to the hallway.

Florence had been quick to rip her hands out from his clutches the moment she attempted to seize an opportunity in mending the misunderstanding. _In vain_ , he might add. "Miss Joana, this isn't—" she reasoned, and in her frustration, she muttered: "shit."

In spite of it all, he still had the gall to scold her. "Language, my dear."

"Don't start," she warned him, sucking air through her teeth. "We'll settle this in my flat."

He was certain she wanted to comment more about this mishap, maybe coupled with a little violence.

As they climbed up the stairs, Miss Hadley had almost barreled onto her flight like a madwoman. She had fallen into the thralls of her temper, and although he didn't mind that fire in her spirit, he would very much rather not be spited by it. In a rare act of graciousness, he captured her hand in his palm, touch careful and tender. "Florence, love," he sought to reason, which riveted her attention. "Calm down. It's just a . . ."

The words died from his lips the moment Miss Joana had apparently crossed paths with them once again, much to their misfortune. _Well I never,_ he irately thought. _This is a cruel breach of privacy._

After having witnessed their lapse in modesty for the second time, Miss Joana spoke first. "I forgot my coat," she mentioned a little too hastily, which had confirmed his suspicions that she'd been the resident tenant of the compartment 48c right across his blue sparrow's flat. Clutching onto her purse, she bobbed her head down. "Once again, pardon my interruption."

Florence may have unhesitatingly explained herself if only she was allowed to—when the woman in question leaned in to her ear, as if to share valuable advice. "However isn't this approach a tad too bold?" Miss Joana whispered, loudly. The implication made itself patent the moment she caught them red-handed from the kitchen to the stairs. She eyed his hold on her, which he promptly released. "Of course, none of my business."

Before anything had been resolved, Miss Joana had left. _It must be a talent of hers_ , he assumed as he watched her flee.

A growl settled on her throat. "We're not even—" she blurted out exasperatingly. "It's still,"

Mildly amused, he finished her sentence. "Too early."

She grunted out, "Yes."

"Her advice did mean well."

"You heard?" she told him, pressing her palm against her forehead. "Of course, you heard."

He chuckled. "She's not very good at keeping a low voice."

Rankled, she sighed under her breath. "I know."

* * *

Retiring back to the privacy of her flat, they had both situated themselves on the couch. He waited patiently for her to recuperate from that series of unfortunate accidents, in which she had done so with steady breaths and meditation.

Finally, Miss Hadley cleared her throat. "Now then," she began, fingers still on her temples. "What you're asking,"

Raising his head, he beamed. "You'll help me?"

"No. I believe I'm not obliged to do so, sir," she told him matter-of-factly. "Letting you stay in my flat alone is enough."

His smile dropped. Ever resilient, he proposed beside her, "I could pay you handsomely for it."

"That would be an interesting offer," was her reply but the look in her gaze betrayed the sentiment, "however I doubt it."

Aleister placed his hand on his chest, as an honest gentleman should. "I am a man of my word."

In a dry tone, she replied, "I don't believe you."

"You don't believe in plenty of things, blue sparrow."

"Rightfully so."

It'd been a slip, a very minor one, however before he realized it, his voice deepened and something slippery and wretched slipped out of his lips. He would have never thought he would do this to her—nor resort to this decision. "Then you must expect me to stay here," he began slowly, subtly, as if drawling out a response. "Longer than what you've bargained."

Florence must have felt the slight change in his demeanor when she asked for clarification. "What do you mean?"

His stare was pinned at her, brazenly demanding attention. There was a calm preciseness in his words. "If you cannot help me return back to London, you should expect me to stay here," and then in the quiet momentum, he finished: "maybe for good."

"What makes you so certain about that?" she questioned him with an unflattering glare. "I can always just kick you out if I want to."

His lips crooked into a thin shrewd smile. "Why, because of our lovely Mrs. Thatcher, of course."

The insinuation was left untold but the silent tension and anticipation between them remained and reverberated.

Her brows furrowed. "You wouldn't."

With just as much mettle, he challenged her. "I would."

"How low."

His lips sighed sharply. "I would call it necessary."

A trace of dark ire shadowed her austerity. "Regardless, you're still resorting to blackmail."

"Yes," Aleister admitted, tone smooth and nonchalant. "Though I wouldn't call it blackmail if we are to be in a compromise. If you wish me to leave sooner, and believe me, my dear, I wouldn't want anything more than that, I would require your cooperation for my predicament."

Her answer had been a grave one. "Fine."

"Wonderful," he remarked, his hands clapped together. "Then we can travel to London?"

"Sir, you realize we are far up in Yorkshire, yes?" she reasoned, crossing her arms. "Half of the expenses to London alone isn't enough for the both of us."

He asked again, "Then do you own a telephone?"

"No."

"Well. I suppose the telegram?"

"Too expensive."

"There must be something."

"How about you write a letter to a close relative? I'm fairly certain someone must recognize your handwriting," she suggested in a practical tone. "And I could always drop it off the post office."

"Oh, yes! A letter!" he buoyed at this. "But when is the letter expected to arrive London?"

"Weeks, months? I'm not sure. The last time a friend of mine received a letter from London was three weeks."

Whatever smidgen of joy he previously reserved had crumbled in an instant upon her answer. His lips contorted into a frown. " _Three weeks?_ That's far too long!"

"You cannot expect it to be quick, sir," she dejected him, voice relentless and caustic that he might as well have flinched. "Your other options are limited regardless."

He sighed in resignation.

"Fine."

* * *

"How thoughtful of you."

Miss Hadley disregarded his remark. "I'm not. Nan, asked me to bring this to you," she went to him, propping down the tray to his desk which had a plate of sliced bread pudding and a glass of water. "I came here to bring you more paper," her hand placed alongside the tray a sheaf of what she claimed.

His hand laid down the pen to the side, lightly stretching his fingers from writing all afternoon in his room. "You're not in a rush, are you? Come sit and chat with me for awhile, blue sparrow."

"You expect me to chat with you after blackmailing me?"

Her tone alone had made her unvoiced anger for him conspicuous. It wasn't something difficult to miss, especially when she'd been the type of woman to hold such grudges. Earlier, luncheon had turned out to be an oppressive affair between them and the lack of interaction may have driven him mad if not for the gracious presence of Mrs. Thatcher, who'd showered him with hospitality.

He would have regarded her silence as the little game they played though he wasn't a simple-minded man to dismiss her cold-shoulder for denial.

It'd been a bluff, he admitted to himself. What he stated to her. However the need to feel apologetic came as an afterthought and the realization smote later when he had underestimated her overprotectiveness over her landlady. Although he hadn't been the sort to reconcile, he took Mrs. Thatcher's advice into consideration. _Talk to her now before you lose her_ , she imparted with a kind smile.

He wedged the fork onto the pastry; it'd been soft and moist from the cut, and upon receiving a generous bite, it was warm on his tongue with the familiar sweetness of butter and syrupy custard. Licking his lips, he gave in to another morsel. "Yes," he said unashamedly. "I'm willing to share my pudding for a few measly minutes of your time."

Raising a brow, she deadpanned, "You realize we'd be sharing one fork?"

"Oh? Is that a yes?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "You're a very insensitive man."

It was strange, the way she uttered it. He'd been described as cruel, sadistic, and debauched ever since he had associations from occults, the black market, and those scandalous love affairs; all of those, and from a spitfire's lips, he was despicable. However he hadn't been called insensitive—not in that manner. There were plenty of hideous adjectives to depict him yet here came the word _insensitive_ with an underline of _still-human_.

And because he didn't know how to respond from it, he brushed it aside. He remained as much as a stranger to her as she was to him after all. Glancing at her, he remembered to smile. "Many people would contradict that," professed Aleister with a wry glint in his eye. "I realize you're opinion of me is . . . contemptible,"—she arched a cynical brow at this—"and for my recent actions, I would like to compensate."

Crossing her arms to her chest, she humored him: "How do you intend to do that?"

He took another bite of his pastry, fork pressing to his bottom lip. "I was hoping I'd feed you pudding."

"I dislike being fed by anyone," she debunked flatly. "I'm not a child."

"Thought so," he intoned and then pulled the vacant chair next to him, patting it welcomingly. "Sit down, my dear. Shall we talk? I truly don't wish to gain your disdain."

Florence appeared overtly loath to accept any invitations from him, and she might have slipped passed the door if he hadn't grasped for her wrist. It'd been bold of him though he made sure his hold upon her remained chaste and firm. With a gentle squeeze, he pleaded, "Please," and then in an almost quiet mutter: "stay."

She sighed, abiding to his request, as she sat down on the offered chair. It hadn't been a complete victory however it was a small one and the urge to beam had been irrepressible. "That's it. How about a little smile? You look lovely in a smile."

"You're bad at this," she calmly pried off his hand from her. "Tell me what you wish to say and be done with it."

"How direct," he remarked wryly. "I'm willing to do what you ask me to, excluding your tedious chores. Just one thing," he pointed one finger for added emphasis, "it could be anything."

"Then you're not allowed to influence Mrs. Thatcher to your advantage ever again."

"I see," he nodded thoughtfully. "I was expecting an apology."

"I deserve an apology," she said. "However apologies are only ever empty coming from you."

"Now, you misjudge my character," he told her, brows quirked and taken aback. "Do you hate me so much, blue sparrow? It does break my heart."

With this, she frowned. "You're not taking me seriously."

" _I do_ ," he asserted, however her disbelief remained from her tolerant stare alone, and without her even uttering a word, they demanded credulity. He sighed softly under his breath. It was strange, the way she could do these things to him. "You know," he began unwittingly, "admittedly, I don't regret what I did," —and in all honesty, he never had, not always anyway—"but I truly do regret how it affected you, oddly enough."

"What do you mean," her eyes narrowed at him, "how it affected _me_?"

"Despite our disagreements; my dear, I'm certain you don't hate me," Aleister chuckled humorlessly—it sounded a little pensive, especially when the blasted emotion crawled and came out of his throat like bile. "However the prospect that you _might_ remain and I may have almost instigated it awhile ago. Perhaps, it had been from the look in your eyes—somehow, there's that slight change. I'd rather not have that," he paused in all but a sharp inhale and a sentiment, despite himself, "you've never been _that_ cold."

He cleared his throat and so also hoped that he cleared his mind as well. He never did fancy these dour emotions weighing on him. "I quite enjoy your company, to be honest, and having injured what little amiable relationship we have is an unpleasant thought."

She was quiet for five painful seconds. It was simply unnerving.

"Too long-winded," commented Florence and it almost stung his chest, "for an apology. A sincere 'sorry, I am an arse' would make me consider."

A soft laugh slipped past his lips. There was indeed something to love in her casual bluntness. "Sorry, I _was_ an arse," he humored her. "I take it all is forgiven?"

Her silence remained as a vague message. She shrugged. "Perhaps."

He could have sworn there was a sliver of playfulness in her voice.

_Back to normal, I hope._

He didn't fight the urge to grin, regardless. "Don't be like that," he replied back, searching for her blue eyes in hopes that, maybe, just maybe, they sought for him as well with patience—with a kindness that he knew he never deserved but wanted all for himself anyway. "Well, is that all you ask?"

Her brow cocked. "You said I could only ask you once."

"It could be twice," was his suggestion. "Something to amuse us both."

The message remained insinuative though it lacked the seductive charm he'd always carefully glossed in his words. He _meant_ it in a manner that hankered for such pleasure because he'd grown to miss and need such a thing. It'd been a week, and with the stress of his plight weighing over his shoulders, sex provided what little escapism and relief he could have.

She frowned. Maybe he'd been wrong, but he could almost sense a trace of disappointment in it as well. "I'm not interested in sexual favors."

Her casual disregard for subtlety did always amuse him. It was simpler conversing about such a sensitive matter this way, but he really wouldn't mind a girlish squeal from this woman. "You can't tell if you don't try," he coaxed still; some part of him wishing she say _yes_ , the other pondering over a split-second decision to kiss her now and take her from the chair.

Her head shook, and he slightly hated himself for having the will to not act at once.

Strict modesty, indifference—she embodied those qualities in her refusal, inside his bedroom. "I'd still rather not try," and then before he expected her to rise and leave him alone in his privacy and hurt ego, she brought about a random a question: "you don't like raisins?"

"No," he blinked and then lowered his eyes on the raisins at the side of his plate. As if to assure her, he supplied: "but the pudding is still good."

He was anticipating for scrunched brows and a rebuke to not waste his food though in lieu of that was a look of quiet recollection. He asked curiously, "You don't like them as well?"

She blinked, looking down on her lap. "No."

His lips simpered. "Then we both share the sentiment, yes?"

Her blue eyes then found his in an angle where there was clarity and rare cordiality between them.

She nodded, and when her gaze drifted away, she stared consideringly to the written stationery on his desk. "Who are you writing for?"

"It's for my sister."

"Are the both of you close?" she was stunned of her own words, wavering from them, biting down her lower lip as if to clamp shut the unintentional curiosity that slipped out. She'd been apparent just then. "I don't wish to intrude, if you don't want to answer."

"You aren't," Aleister smiled, reassuring. "No," this time, he said it in an uncharacteristic somberness. It was a tone, he knew, that didn't belong to him but from his father's. Then smoothly, gently, he added: "but we've only had each other."

He smiled once again. It was hardly a natural smile after unwillingly having revisited an unpleasant memory.

Miss Hadley may have been keen enough to see through it, that compromising hitch in his tone. Even if that was the case, he was grateful that she hadn't questioned more about it.

Changing the topic, he asked amiably, "Any siblings of your own?"

She went still for a moment. "I've never had one," she confessed, an underlying tone of sentiment in her voice. To his surprise, she smiled a little and he had to blink thrice just to confirm that it appeared rather _fond_. "But I do have one now. Well, a brother-in-law."

_Brother-in-law?_

Realizing that she had taken more of his time than she would have wanted to, she excused herself, "I believe I should leave," she told him, clearing her throat as she did so. "You could give me the letter if you're done."

He simply nodded, noting belatedly that he hadn't voiced out the thousands of queries in his head about her inscrutable relative before she stepped out his room.

As much as he focused his thoughts on the letter, his mind stubbornly delved onto the implication of her in-law.

Some part of him twisted at the prospect of a possibility. Everything else, he denied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exposition Corner:
> 
> Telegrams and Telephones: Back in the day, telegrams were charged 6d (6 pennies). For the first twelve words, and one half-penny for each additional word; addresses are charged for. Telegrams are transmitted by the telegraph (or by wire). The telegraph acts by means of electricity passing through copper wires. As for telephones, there are public call rooms for telephones in London (with a charge fee) however they may be very limited to rural places.
> 
> "Of magnolia blossoms and bread-and-butterflies…": A small token of sentiment from their childhood, just something between them. Magnolia symbolizing purity, at times even feminine sweetness and gentleness, and 'bread-and-butterflies' is a reference to the same creature by name from Alice and Wonderland. If it'd been vague, he'd been recalling the time his sister had once been a sweet and innocent girl—from the deceitful woman that she is now. (Consider that an easter egg for future chapters)


End file.
